and a swelling rage
by free-pirate
Summary: He feels the weight of the mountain on top of them, millions of tons of stone bearing down, pressing him to breaking. (Fili/Kili, Fili/Thorin, angst, major character death, WIP.)
1. Chapter 1

Okay, here's the gist of this thing: it's going to be long and angsty, contain Durincest of two types (Kili/Fili and Fili/Thorin), and contain, in the beginning here, major canonical character death. Consider yourself warned. Also a WIP for the time being.

* * *

He hears the impact before he feels it, a loud, sickening crunch that reverberates in his teeth. Thorin meets the ground before he realizes that the source of the noise was something making contact with his own body, gasping for air before he feels the exquisite, mind-numbing pain breathing brings.

There is no sound for a moment, only some large and incomprehensible hurt licking at his skin, at his insides, everywhere. His back must surely have been the point of impact because it feels as though someone's lit a fire in the skin around his spine; it's the only distinguishable feeling, separate from the larger pain that's spreading through him.

Thorin's sword slips from his fingers but he doesn't feel it do so, only watches it hit the ground when he finds the strength to open his eyes. He slumps forward, breath coming short and ragged. The command to stop him before he hits the ground goes unanswered by his arms, and he's left lying in the mud of the field, trying to breathe around the tightening constriction in his chest.

His eyes attempt to flutter closed but he's determined not to let them. This is the one focus he keeps in mind as he watches feet stomp past, goblins with their pale skin almost transparent in the dying light, Dain's men in their heavy boots. It seems like ages pass while his limbs slowly go numb, watching the fight raging on around him but unable to do anything other than attempt shallow, broken breaths.

And then he hears something above the clash of steel to steel, above the guttural battle cries of goblins and dwarves and the delicate, musical lilt of Sindarin almost lost within the din. Someone is calling his name from very far off, and he wants to lift his head, cry out, something, but trying any of these things only brings panic; he can't lift his head, can't gather enough breath to cry out.

There is no warning beside heavy footfalls behind him, the soft thump of a weapon hitting the ground. There are hands on his shoulders, pulling him over, and just the touch drives what precious little breath he has out of him again.

It takes Thorin a few seconds to recognize the one holding him, and when he does it's another pain, something smaller but above his own suffering. He won't make it – the clarity of that thought is startling compared with the blur every other thought has become – and here is what he will leave his heir; a kingdom torn by negotiations he won't hope to understand, a tradition he knows nothing of and the support of a scattered few. He has Erebor, its endless riches, the crown and throne that his title will demand. Everything else will be hard won.

He recognizes Fili, so much like Frerin – golden-haired, easy to smile. Frerin was more like Kili in disposition; as second born, he didn't have to shoulder the burden that Thorin always carried, the weight of the mountains on his shoulders. Sweet, brave Frerin, who never wanted anything but his approval.

And he's back at Moria then, with Frerin's hands hovering over him, not Fili's. There's blood matted in his brother's hair but he looks unhurt; it's Thorin who is spread on the ground, blood bubbling up from between his lips to stick in his beard. Frerin's come for him at last. He only spent a precious few years with his brother, but Thorin feels the ache of loss now as keenly as he has every moment since his death.

There's a look in Frerin's eyes that Thorin can't place, doesn't want to – he is the cause of this look and he doesn't want to be. He doesn't want to hurt anyone; he just wants to stop hurting.

He wants to reach up and touch Frerin's face but his arms won't obey, and then Frerin says, "Uncle," small and ragged, torn from his throat – and there are eagles wheeling overhead, like there never were at Moria. He coughs, air pushing out from lungs that have nothing left to give.

"Fili," he says, voice not his own, barely more than a whisper. There's another cry from somewhere to the left. Thorin's eyes are fixed on Fili's face, but he knows from the look he finds there that Kili is safe, that Fili was in doubt about it, and that his fears have been assuaged.

There's a small sound on the air, and a solid thump behind Fili, and an orc falls over screaming. There's a dark-fletched arrow buried in its thigh, which moments before was inches from Fili's ear. Kili joins them, kneeling in the mud with his bow tossed aside. If he wasn't hurting, if he couldn't feel the life leaving him in bits and pieces, he would urge caution.

Kili is close enough to touch, but trying to reach out to him proves fruitless. He watches Kili's face for a few moments, watches the shock and hurt play over his face, and before he has a chance to summon the strength to say anything Kili is up again, screaming out a battle-cry in unbroken Khuzdul. He picks his bow up and slings it across his back, unsheathes his sword and holds it ready in front of him. Something pulls at Thorin's chest that has nothing to do with physical hurts.

Above him, Fili lowers Thorin's head to the ground with the utmost care, strong, gentle hands on the back of his neck, combing one last time through his hair before they grasp swords again. Fili echoes Kili's cry and launches himself into the writhing horde of goblins and wargs.

The last thing he sees before his eyes slide shut is the arrow that buries itself in Fili's shoulder, catching him mid-swing and sending his sword clattering to the ground. It gives the orc that he's fighting enough of an opening to bury his blade in Fili's side.

The last thing he hears is Kili's roar.

As Fili rises to consciousness, he feels light and heavy at the same time. For a long time he can just lie there, can't feel his body at all, can't see or hear. He just exists, and for a long time that's all there is.

And then he feels pain.

First there's the deep ache in his right shoulder. It comes on suddenly, so suddenly it feels like he's been shot a second time. And he can't cry out in pain because his mouth isn't working, can't thrash like he wants to because he can't move.

And then feeling seeps downward, reaching a critical point – his right side, and then he can't feel anything but pain. It's sudden and intense, feels like something vital is missing. He begins to twitch as much as he can manage, flicking his fingers in small motions that go seemingly unnoticed.

The next thing is hearing. It approaches him cautiously, like he's getting closer and closer to people conversing even though he himself isn't moving. He hears a voice – the first he's heard in a long time, and it's… the hobbit's? But… didn't Thorin exile him from the mountain? Are they in the mountain at all?

Where is he?

He'd ask if he could, but until he can speak he holds the question in the back of his mind, burning and festering.

After some time of just hearing, fading in and out of sleep, he hears Kili's voice. It's calming, just about the best thing he's heard since he's been able to hear again. But Kili doesn't sound like himself. He sounds gruff and too-short with Oin, who Fili's been able to identify as the voice he hears most often, muttering to himself as he tends to the pain. He likes Oin. Oin makes the pain go away, at least for a while.

But Oin leaves the two of them alone, him and Kili. He wants to twitch his fingers, do something Kili will understand, but at the moment the strength is just outside of his grasp. He's wasted it all on listening.

He listens still, listen to Kili's sigh. He feels Kili's fingers in his hair, at first just running through, then undoing the braids in his hair, and redoing them carefully, weaving them together with care. "Fee," he says, name he hasn't used since they were younger. Fili wishes he could do anything but remain impassive. "Please, please," Kili gasps, voice husky. Fili tries so hard to break through the heavy blanket of immobility that's holding him down, but he's stuck. No matter how hard he tries, he can't move.

"I can't do this on my own," Kili continues, fingers tightening in Fili's hair. "I _won't_."

It's so characteristically Kili, stubborn and determined, that Fili wants to smile. His mouth doesn't respond, but it's not for lack of trying. "I need you," Kili says, voice only wavering slightly. Fili wants to tell him that he's here, that everything will be okay, that he wouldn't leave without Kili anyway.

He wiggles his fingers.

Kili lets out a strangled noise of surprise. "Oin!" he calls, touching Fili's hand. Fili wants to crawl into the warmth that is Kili and never come out, never let him feel this way again. How did he get hurt? Why can't he wake up?

Kili doesn't leave his side after he finds signs of life. He talks sometimes, and Fili looses track of the conversation, weaving in and out of consciousness. He feels Kili touching him, a constant pressure on his hands, in his hair. He has his braids redone so many times a day that he doesn't understand how Kili isn't tired of it yet. Other people come and go, but Kili is always there.

Fili is constantly trying to get his body to respond, to do more than move his fingers – he tries in vain for what feels like days. His pains have faded to dull, constant annoyances. Part of it is not moving, he supposes, but if he could move he'd gladly deal with the pain.

His frustration peaks when Kili is fiddling with his hand, just pressing the tips of his fingers into Fili's palm for the contact and Fili tries to clench his hand around his brother's fingers, catch them and stop them from moving. When his palm encloses skin, Kili makes a triumphant sound and calls for Oin again.

A few moments later, Fili opens his eyes and is immediately blinded.

There is only torchlight in the room, but even that is too-bright. Faces swim into focus above him, Oin and Kili and Bilbo lurking worriedly out of the way. The wild, happy grin on Kili's face looks a bit strained like he hasn't had cause to use it lately, but it's the most beautiful thing Fili's ever seen. His own mouth twitches up.

"You're awake!" Kili says, happier than Fili's heard since he could hear again.

"I've been for a while." His voice doesn't sound like his own, scratchy and hoarse. He remembers wanting to ask for what feels like forever, so he does. "Where are we?"

It's six days before Fili can walk again without the immediate, disabling pain flaring in his side. There are no windows here, and being unconscious for so long has ruined his sleep cycles; he only knows the day at all because Kili tells him faithfully, sitting by his bed day in and day out. There is no cheerful chatter like there should be. Kili is still and quiet as the stone around them most days, eyes distant unless Fili is addressing him directly.

It's a change from the way Kili was when he first opened his eyes. He was more like himself then. But Kili's been through so much in Fili's time recovering. He isn't surprised, just wishes he could make his brother carefree again.

He feels guilty. This is his fault, letting his concern for Thorin to distract him, get himself hurt. He wasn't fast enough to avoid it. Six days he's been lying on this cot with his brother despondent beside him, and he occupies himself with imagining the tongue-lashings Thorin would give him for being so slow. Fili can imagine them easily enough, but the knowledge that he'll only be imagining them sets off a deeper ache, something unrelated to the gaping wound in his side or the constant twinge in his shoulder as the muscles knit themselves back together.

He's worn himself out hobbling around the room, and he's back in the cot for now. Kili hovered over him like a mother hen, and Fili is only a little ashamed at having to rely on his brother's help to get around. At the same time, it's the first time since he woke up that he's seen Kili present, really present.

He won't stay there long; despite the protests he faces when he does anything that could possibly injure himself further, there are things he needs to tend to. He's been laid up for too long already.

The first among these is something he and Kili must do alone.

The crypt is deep in the mountain, so deep that not even Smaug's corruption could reach it. When he makes the suggestion, Kili immediately refuses, shoulders stiffening. "There are too many stairs, you can't possibly make it," he says, but the look in his eyes tells Fili that the stairs aren't his concern.

In a different time, he might have teased his brother about being afraid of ghosts to get Kili to agree, defensive and eager to prove him wrong. The words fall to ash on his tongue now – he knows it's nothing to do with childish fear.

"That's what the stick is for." The knobby walking stick leaning in the corner was a gift from Bilbo, who suggested it might be useful for getting around when Kili wasn't there to help. The unhappy set to Kili's mouth afterwards and the way he glared at the hobbit made something long-forgotten stir in Fili's chest, something that burred there and stuck, rubbing raw against his lungs. "And that's why I've got you here."

Kili looks away, fastens his gaze on a spot on the far wall. From where Fili's settled back against his too-flat pillows, he can't see Kili's face, doesn't know if he wants to. He wishes he didn't have to make Kili do this.

But they won't let him go alone, and chances are he couldn't make it back without help. Taking anyone else seems wrong, doesn't settle right. It should be his brother.

"Please," Fili says, and Thorin's voice rises at the back of his mind. _Kings don't beg_. But he isn't a king, not yet, no matter how much everybody seems to be acting like he already wears the crown. There are ceremonies that have to be undertaken to secure his title, and as soon as he can stand on his own without falling over they will be prepared.

But this is something he has to do before then, something they both have to do. Fili needs to see Thorin's effigy, carved in the cold stone, needs to prove to himself that his uncle is gone and the responsibility of leading their people falls to him. There's an ache deep inside that should be proof enough, but he's not going to take that at face value.

Next to him, Kili lets out a shaking breath, fingers gripping the sides of the cot too tight, blankets bunching. "We should wait until your strength has returned."

Fili's been hearing that for days now, since he showed interest in getting up and moving around, in fulfilling his duties. He breathes in and out, once, twice, and keeps his temper under control. "There are other things that will need my attention when my strength is returned."

Kili's fingers flex in the blanket, digging his heels in.

"If you won't help me," Fili says, keeping his eyes riveted to Kili's ear, the only bit of his face he can see, "I'll call Dwalin or Bofur. I'm sure they'd be more than willing to—"

Suddenly, Kili is on his feet, chair moved back from all of the tense energy leaving his body. Fili doesn't let himself smile, doesn't let himself win, because this isn't a victory. If Kili never had to go down there, Fili would be happy. But this needs doing, and he needs Kili there with him. It's selfish but it's the only way Fili knows how to be when it comes to his brother.

"Come on then," Kili says, and Fili can hear how hard he's gritting his teeth. "We should go before someone tries to stop us."

It takes Fili full minutes to lever himself up, trying to bend only one side of his body and not succeeding overly well. His legs feel loose when his feet hit the floor, more water than solid, and Kili is by his side a second later to bear his weight as he gets to his feet.

This is the part that hurts the most, really. He can feel the stitches pulling at his skin when he moves too quickly, and that's uncomfortable, but his entire left side is a mess of indistinguishable pain.

He bites the inside of his cheek and breathes in, out.

Kili brings him a sheet of paper, insists they at least leave a note. It wouldn't do to have what remains of their company out for blood if they find them missing. Fili scratches out a short explanation as best he can; his hand fumbles over the shape of the letters, unused for so long, but in the end it looks legible enough. Kili lays it on his pillow and returns, slinging Fili's left arm over his shoulders, pressing the wound tight and immobile against his side.

The pull stretches a bit, hurts at first, but when they start walking they establish a rhythm that doesn't hurt as much and gets them moving faster. The stairs down to the crypt are going to be painful, as it should be. Every sharp pain is repentance.

Making it across Erebor without being seen is wishful thinking, they both know this. Neither of them are surprised when they run into little Ori, tucked into a corner near the entrance to the mountain with a dusty tome opened in front of him. Fili's momentarily glad it's Ori and not Dwalin, but there's still a ways to go yet. He shouldn't count his blessings.

Ori almost doesn't look up, too absorbed in whatever he's reading, and they can almost slip past.

And then Kili's foot shuffles too loudly across the dirty stone floor, and Ori looks up, startled. It takes him a moment to speak. "Fili! I mean, Your—"

"Don't," Fili says, wincing as Kili shifts wrong against his side. "Not you too."

Ori flushes and looks down at his feet for a moment, and then back up at them. "I don't want to offend, or – be presumptuous, but shouldn't you be resting?"

"He should be," Kili mutters, casting a dark look at the floor.

"I've rested long enough," Fili says, dropping his arm from Kili's shoulders and hobbling embarrassingly slowly across the small room to where Ori is sitting. "We'll be back, and if you could just please not tell anyone about this? I'd be very grateful."

Ori nods, watching him oddly. "Of course. But where are you going?"

Fili stops for a moment, catching his breath and trying not to sigh. He was dreading this question. "It's not important. We won't be in any danger, okay? We'll be back in a while."

There's a stubborn little line between Ori's eyebrows that reminds Fili too much of Dori for his liking, but in the end he concedes, returning to his corner and the book that's barely keeping itself together. "Just be careful," he says, watching them. He keeps watching them until they're gone from sight, Fili nestled back against Kili as they shuffle out into another long, straight corridor.

Navigating Erebor is treacherous business, with so much of it destroyed by the dragon or falling apart from disuse. They only hit a couple of rough patches, places that fill Fili with a sort of terrible awe – stone melted from the heat of dragon's breath, entire walkways knocked out from the force of a well-placed tail thrash. Mostly, the dwarves who built Erebor built it to last. The dragon has had more effect in some places than others, and the further they get from the treasury the easier it becomes to move freely.

The stairway down to the crypt is narrow and dark, and he's left leaning against an intact pillar while Kili finds a torch. He lights it with a quick flick of the flints in his tinderbox, and tries to direct the light towards the stairs.

"Is it mostly still intact?"

"It's solid," Kili says shortly. "All the way down, it's good. There are more torches at the bottom." He looks down at the opening like he wants it to swallow him up, and Fili tries to grasp his shoulder, ends up with a hand pressed to the back of Kili's neck instead. There's cold sweat forming there under the heat of all of Kili's wild hair, and Fili rubs little circles into the place his pulse pounds with a thumb, trying not to press too hard or too sharply. Kili's breath catches anyway, fingers clutched tighter around the torch in his hand, and Fili pulls his hand away.

Kili starts down the stairs first without another word, face unreadable in the torchlight. Fili moves toward the first step as easily as he's able, side already throbbing from the exertion. He doesn't want to think about how it'll feel when they reach the bottom, or on the path back up.

The first few steps are a fumbling attempt to get it right, to put each of them in as much comfort as possible while still making progress. After those first few, a routine develops where Kili steps down first and Fili grips onto his shoulder, using him as leverage so his feet don't give way and his side doesn't split open when he makes the step down.

Never in his life has Fili been somewhere that was made specifically for their kind. He's used to having to navigate the streets and steps of the men in the places they've stayed, his smaller, stouter legs unable to make many of the large leaps that men made so effortlessly. Here, the steps were made to accommodate shorter legs, Fili finds himself immensely grateful for it as their journey into the dark of the mountain wears on.

Midway down the stairs, they stop for a short break. Kili insists on checking Fili's wound, pulls away shirts and bandages until the ugly mark is visible to the torchlight.

"Oin's going to kill me for taking you someplace this dirty," Kili says, looking at the gash intently. "I'd hate for it to get infected from all the dust."

"If you'd cover it back up, you'd have nothing to worry about," Fili says, more irritated than he means. He's tired of having people poking at him, tired of being scrutinized like this. He's tired of having the wound at all, a constant reminder of his own stupidity. Having people constantly pointing it out is wearing on his nerves.

Kili doesn't seem to be listening. "You'll have a huge scar," he says, moving the torch to his other hand and moving his fingers over the wound, a suggestion of a touch. Fili can't feel the heat from Kili's fingers like he knows he should, whole area alive with tenderness.

He allows this for a few moments before he steps back a half pace, uses his right hand to secure the bandages and lets his shirts fall back over it. "I'll be fine," Fili says, more quietly than he wants to. "Let's keep going."

They continue in silence, descending into the oppressive dark.

The staircase ends abruptly. There is a long dusty corridor leading deeper into the mountain, and there are carvings on the walls. Fili touches them, running his fingers over symbols he doesn't know, so ancient that no one alive would probably know them. But even without knowing what the symbols mean he can tell what they say – words of esteem, words of honor, merit, and courage. Odes to the House of Durin, every one, and Fili has never felt less worthy to sit the throne of Erebor, to share blood with the ones these words were written for.

There are more torches along the walls, and When Kili starts lighting them with his own dwindling flame Fili can make out impressions in the thick dust layering the ground, fresh boot prints and long scrapes where the floor is bared.

When they brought Thorin down, of course.

"There's a," Kili starts, clears his throat. "There's an even passageway where they brought—not down the stairs."

Fili nods, tearing his eyes away from the marks and back to Kili, who's standing down the passageway, stopped halfway to another torch. He looks over his shoulder, waiting, and Fili makes his way down the corridor until he's again by Kili's side.

"How much farther?"

"Just down here." Kili continues lighting torches until the very end of the passageway, where lurks a large, dark doorway. It's a strong arch, carved directly from the stone, with runes framing the opening. They're etched deep, still legible after all this time; some ancient Elvish tongue that he can't read, and dark, bold Khuzdul that he can.

His eyes sweep over the runes and a lump rises in his throat. He pushes it down and steadies himself with a hand against the stone passageway.

It's utterly silent down here, and dark beyond the spread of the torchlight. Kili hesitates uncertainly before the door, shoulders set, bracing himself. Fili takes a deep breath and pushes himself off the wall, ignores Kili's offer of help . He will stride into the resting place of his forbears proud, tall, and without assistance.

Fili can't see how long the room is, only that it is lined by more heavy archways on each side. Each of these archways have inscriptions over them, the names and words of respect for the dwarves resting within. Kili is careful with the torch, resting it in the bracket present in each tomb when they step inside. Fili waits for his brother to be beside him before he starts the ritual bowing process. It pulls at his stitches, and by the time they reach the end of the room they might very well pull out, but Fili doesn't care. He will bear this without a flinch of pain, and possessed of all of the nobility his House demands of him.

It's a long process, making their way through the tombs of their forefathers. In each archway, they stand and, in unison, read off the Khuzdul inscribed above before paying their respects. It's a tradition they've never had to partake in, but one Thorin made sure to teach them.

Fili feels his stitches pop long before they reach the end of the room, and he's mid-bow when it happens. He almost, almost gives himself away, but outside of a small intake of breath he keeps silent; even that is enough to make Kili's eyes snap to him, but Fili doesn't acknowledge it, continues with the ceremony without pause.

Each effigy along their journey has been different – at first, the changes were stylistic only. The faces on his far ancestors were chiseled very square and heavy from the stone, like the statues that guard the entrance to the mountain. They aren't realistic countenances, but meant to impart the strength and honor within each ruler buried here. As the years wear on, entire generations passing before their eyes, it changes; the figures become more realistic, more detailed.

The farther they walk into the mountain, the heavier Fili's shoulders feel.

At last, they reach the tombs of Thror and Thrain, empty but no different than the rest of them; dressed elaborately, and the style in the stone carvings is the most realistic he's seen yet. They spend more time here, perhaps delaying the inevitable.

These tombs are left the same they were the day the dragon attacked – there is no date of death carved into the archways, no words of great deeds. Fili has heard enough stories about his grandfather and his great-grandfather that he will make the trip down again and add them himself. It doesn't do for a dwarf lord's resting place to go unadorned, not like this. Perhaps Kili will assist him, and they'll work out the indelicate, thick lines of the most esteeming things they can think of together.

Fili lingers in Thrain's tomb longer than he should, looking down at the face of their grandfather. Mother always had such nice stories about him, told only on dark, fireside nights when Thorin wasn't at home, off to secure trade with another settlement or settle a dispute in a neighboring house. Thorin never spoke of him more than was strictly necessary, and when they were small Fili remembers asking his mother why, remembers the look on her face that made him immediately wrap his arms around her neck and apologize for asking.

When he tears his eyes from the stone likeness of their grandfather, Kili is watching him, eyes wide. Fili nods and turns, slowly, mindful of the burning in his side. There's a lump rising in his throat, a heaviness on his chest, and he doesn't want to keep going. He doesn't want to see the effigies for their uncles, the one they never got to know and the one that he, at least, knew too well.

Across the corridor is Frerin's tomb, the arch bare. There's nothing to read out as they step inside, and once there they realize that they should have known; Frerin was too young to have an effigy carved when Erebor fell. Thorin's might have been done before, crown prince and older besides, but there is no stone face on Frerin's tomb. There is a plain rectangular casket where his body might have lain if it hadn't been burned at the gates of Moria with Thror and the countless warriors who fell there. He was younger than he and Kili are now.

Fili's been told many times since he woke that he is young, that he'll pull through. That his wounds will heal. But Fili feels shattered, old, as he pays his respect to the blank slab that is all remaining of their youngest uncle.

He feels older still when he straightens, now-wet bandages sticking to him, and with the knowledge that he doesn't want to step into the last tomb.

They leave the memory of Frerin behind as they step into the corridor, the last archway yawning huge and dark before them. The torch is shaking, Kili's hand unsteady, and Fili puts a hand to the bandages at his side, pressing the wet cloth into the wound to try and stanch the flow of blood. It's a distraction, sharp bite of pain that stops the lump in his throat from bursting into a cry, into traitorous tears. He is one of the last remaining heirs of Durin. He and Kili, standing here at the mouth of something large and terrible, are all that are left of the dwarves they've been paying respects to.

He takes the torch from Kili's shaking hand, his own not much better, and steps into the dark opening of Thorin's tomb.

The dust has been cleaned from the floor. The torch bracket is new, fashioned of shining metal instead of the dull, rusty counterparts lining the corridors. Fili keeps his eyes riveted to it, mind focusing on his task as he attempts to fit the torch in with hands that feel suddenly large and useless.

Kili steps in behind him, his breath heavy and thick, clogged in his throat. Fili turns to look at him first. Kili's eyes are sparkling in the light of the torch, face open and hurt. He's shaking, minute little shudders running the length of his body as he very carefully doesn't look any farther into the tomb, eyes fixed on Fili.

Fili wants to say his brother's name, wants to cross the small space and make that look go away, but he can't do either. His feet are rooted to the floor, watching his brother slowly fall apart at having to face this again.

When he finds his voice, he croaks out, "I'm here," around the thickness in his throat, and at the look on Kili's face he can't hold it anymore. He feels the prickling behind his eyes and doesn't try to hide it. Kili steps closer, in Fili's space, and Fili moves aside, turns, and looks at Thorin's effigy for the first time.

It's not a perfect likeness. He looks incredibly young and peaceful in stone. This is a Thorin they never knew, before the dragon, before the weight of the world. It's not a realistic depiction; they don't have his nose right, eyebrows a shade too thick, and in the effigy his beard is longer, longer than they've ever seen it. Fili wonders if he might have grown it again when he reclaimed the throne, no longer in mourning for those lost to Smaug.

Kili's shoulder presses into his uninjured one, needing the contact, and Fili leans into him, responding as he always does.

He remembers, suddenly, the battle. The moments before the arrow in his shoulder and the blade in his side, before he hit the ground and woke, days later, without knowing where he was. He remembers Thorin lying in the mud of the battlefield, unable to move, muttering to his dead brother. He remembers the look in his eyes, the apology there, and the ragged sound of Kili's battle cry when he found them, Thorin's head cradled in Fili's lap.

After that there is only pain, dulling all of his senses. He remembers lying in the mud next to his uncle, watching his eyes flicker closed for the last time. He remembers wanting to do something about it, but his lifeblood was rushing out of his side in great gushes. He felt oddly at peace until he heard Kili's cry, breaking through the haze of pain; he couldn't leave Kili alone, not like this. He's too young, it'd be too much for him, he's not been groomed for it the way Fili has. No, he…

Kili's hand on his arm breaks him out of his memories, and he realizes that tears are falling freely from his eyes now, leaving clean streaks on his face, dirtied from the dust. He bows as low as he can without completely opening the wound in his side again, and next to him Kili does the same. They stay bent for longer than they have before, and when they straighten, Kili sags.

His shoulders fall, and he breathes out in a quick whisper, "I. I washed the blood – it was everywhere, so much of it." He turns to face Fili, pleading with his eyes. "His hair needed – I redid his braids, added a few with new clasps they gave me. I wish—" He takes a breath, sucks in a lungful of air before continuing. "He looked like a king, Fee. I wish you'd have seen him."

"Because he was," is all Fili can say, raises his hand to tangle in Kili's hair, rubbing at his scalp the way he used to when they were children. He's holding himself together with threadbare rope, feels like his entire body might break from the force of what's weighing down on him. He feels, keenly, the weight of the mountain on top of them, millions of tons of stone bearing down, pressing him to breaking. "I'm so sorry," is what he says, but it's not what he means to.

Kili nods, buries his face in Fili's shoulder and sobs, sound loud and echoing in the quiet. Fili holds him as best he can without falling over, not tearing his eyes off Thorin's heavy stone likeness. "I'm sorry," he says again, and this time he doesn't know which of them he's talking to.

* * *

Chapter Two should be coming shortly. It's mostly finished but very, very long. 3


	2. Chapter 2

When they were younger, their favorite stories were the ones Thorin told them of Erebor. They were bedtime stories, told in the hush of the dark house; Kili would curl up in their uncle's lap, eyes slowly drifting shut and starting back open on a cycle that rose and fell with his words. Fili would sit on the floor, chin on Thorin's knee, rapt.

They absorbed his words, breathed them like air. Erebor was written into their minds as strongly as it was written into their blood, a home they'd never known but that must surely be wonderful, golden and glittering. They'd reconstructed the mountain on an idea that it couldn't possibly live up to.

The mountain is nothing like those stories, not initially. The dragon has left much untouched, but what he has corrupted is almost too far gone to salvage.

Fili gets his side re-stitched, ignores Oin's grumbling and Dwalin's fuming, settles back onto his cot and waits. He stays there dutifully, moving about only to regain the sense of moving. Kili spends less time sitting at his bedside. There are things to tend to in the city and Fili itches to get out there and deal with it himself. He wants to stop sending Kili because Kili isn't made for this. This was never supposed to be his job.

They bring him reports like they're supposed to, and they do nothing to stifle the urge to ignore his wounds and get to work fixing the kingdom.

By his own stubbornness he ends up stuck in bed for longer than he was originally supposed to. The gash in his side takes twice as long to heal because he didn't stay off of it the first time; long after the muscles in his shoulder have knit back together, his side twinges with every breath.

The Dwarves that once called the mountain home are returning. It's a slow trickle of craftsmen at first, men with skill in metalwork and masonry; they leave their families behind in the scattered villages of Men and come ready to rebuild. It's a show of loyalty Fili didn't expect, but it's not loyalty to him. It might not even be loyalty to the Line of Durin. Erebor inspires things in people, though how much of that inspiration stems from the mountain itself and how much is connected to her vast wealth is unknowable.

It feels like ages before he's well enough to deal with the demands of the people. More are coming every day. No matter how quickly the craftsmen are working to get the city back to an operational level there are still more dwarves to house and feed. He sends Bofur and a small group of others to evaluate the ruins, to find out where they need the repairs most.

The first day Fili is deemed capable of dealing with his own affairs is spent in meetings with the head craftsmen, discussing where they should focus their efforts. Kili is a constant presence hovering behind him, like he's waiting for Fili to fall over at any moment. By midday he's so exhausted he can't even be frustrated about it.

The King's apartments are situated down a dark, labyrinthine passage that hasn't seen light in over a century. Only minor repairs are needed to the royal complex; this part of the city escaped the dragon's reach. Fili resolutely refuses to let them anywhere near it with their tools. The residential districts are crumbling around them, and with the volume of dwarves arriving to the mountain they're going to need those inhabitable.

It's a noble excuse, and a good cause, but it helps to disguise the taste of fear at the back of his throat, the feeling of innate wrongness when he thinks of living there.

There are a few pockets of rooms that were mostly used for servants before that have been untouched. Fili takes one of the smallest he can convince them to give him (and even then it has a fireplace, but that's something he's going to have to accept). Kili takes a room down the hall. It's the first time in his life Fili's had a room to himself, and despite how tired he is after long days in the ruined city he finds himself unable to sleep without the sound of his brother's steady breathing. The room feels too empty without Kili's soft snuffling snores.

A large caravan arrives from the Blue Mountains shortly after Fili is up and moving. It forces him to consolidate different families to the same rooms to give everyone a place to sleep without them spilling into the corridors and stairwells; the first move he makes is putting Kili in his room.

That night is the first he truly sleeps.

Trade negotiations are terribly tedious. Meetings are fast becoming his least favorite occurrences, long hours locked into a dusty room with envoys from any of the surrounding kingdoms, men and elves alike. They're still walking the edge of a knife with the Elvenking; Fili is not his uncle, but he does remember long weeks locked in the dark, afraid that they might come for him but absolutely terrified they would come for Kili.

A civil relationship with their neighbors to the east is the key to prosperity. He repeats it like a mantra, hoping it will sound more convincing each time. He is continuously disappointed.

Despite his best efforts to keep them away from his symbols of status, the craftsmen have repaired the throne. Smashed and half-missing, it is now returned to its former glory. Fili's coronation looms, a constant presence lurking on the horizon to match the dark cloud that is his brother constantly at his side. Kili is mostly quiet, sits in on the meetings without contributing a word. Sometimes Fili catches his brother watching him, but he has little time to think about it.

All of his time is devoted to worrying.

He tries to remember what Thorin had begun to teach him about leadership, about what they'd have to do when this time came. What he doesn't remember Balin does, and together they figure out a plan of action that will get the mountain to its knees, if not entirely back on its feet.

They've yet to set a date for the ceremony, but Balin insists it must be soon. The longer they stay kingless the more vulnerable they are, and with the gold in their treasury it would take a fool not to see it as an opportunity. Fili sets conditions only to be denied. There is an old Khuzdul proverb about not feasting until your halls and family are secure; tradition tells them they must wait.

Need tells them otherwise.

It's been a long day of debating. Fili has been in the meeting chambers almost since he woke, and by the time the evening meal is brought to them he wants nothing more than a nice rowdy tavern and a bottomless mug of honeyed mead. Kili is watching him; he can feel the weight of the gaze resting between his shoulders and he rolls them, tries to physically shake the feeling off.

When he sits again, his point made and reasoning exhausted, Kili is closer than he remembers him being before. He rests a hand on Fili's shoulder, a casual touch that burns through his layers of clothing. The stab of want hits him full in the stomach and he can't remember the last time he was touched in affection; even this small touch sends him aching and needy.

He takes a deep, steadying breath and closes his eyes briefly.

"I think it's time the meeting was adjourned for the night," Kili's voice says near his ear, low so the Men in the room won't hear, and Fili nods, breathes out slow and stands, shaking Kili's hand off of him.

"Perhaps it is best if we reconvene in the morning; we have had a long day, and rest will help us see clearer," he says, trying to incite half the noble bearing Thorin would have exuded. This seems a constant personal failure. Thorin wore his status like an addition layer of furs draped across his shoulders, regal and steadfast. Fili feels like he's folding beneath the weight.

The envoy looks like he might argue, but in the end his better sense wins out. Fili leaves the meeting room, breathes in the smell of the mountain with something akin to reverence. Kili is right behind him, and they walk back to their room in silence.

As soon as the door is shut behind them, Fili sheds his overcoat and drops into a chair by the fireplace. He rests his head in his hands and sighs heavily. He half-expects Kili to say something, but the silence endures; he approaches, heavy footfalls stopping behind his chair.

There are hands on his shoulders, thumbs laid along his neck. It's an intimate touch, too intimate, and Fili's torn between pulling away and sinking back against those hands. Kili's fingers are far too nimble for a dwarf; comes from all the archery, Fili supposes. They work their way under his shirt, tentative feather-light touches down his neck.

Kili's hands meet skin and they rest there for just a moment, half a second, like he's waiting for Fili to pull away. When Fili doesn't move, Kili presses in with his thumbs and fingertips, kneading the skin under his hands. After a few moments of just this, manipulating the muscles in his brother's shoulders, Kili moves Fili's hair out of the way, pushing it over one shoulder to keep from pulling.

He reaches around the other shoulder, reaches down Fili's chest and touches the laces holding his shirt closed. At first he just touches them, almost asking. One of Fili's own hands reaches up to close over Kili's, stopping him. "_Kili_," he says, and he sounds just as miserable as he feels.

"Relax, 'm just. Need more room," Kili says, voice too close to Fili's ear for comfort. After a quick squeeze, Fili drops his hand, lets out a shaky breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Kili makes short work of the laces, pushes Fili's shirt open and off his shoulders so he can see the muscles there twitching as he works at them.

The fire is warm. Someone set it earlier in the evening and a little circle of warmth has collected in front of it. Fili makes a small happy noise as Kili forces him to relax with quick, clever strength. He thinks only of the way those hands feel on him now and not that he knows how they feel when set to other, more intimate tasks.

"You've taken to leadership," Kili says from somewhere above, bringing Fili back to the room and the fire. His voice is soft, low, something Fili hasn't heard in so long – his brother talks so rarely these days that he treasures each word, rolls them around in his mind.

After a moment, he snorts, an unforgiving sound. "Like a cat to water."

"Not true. They love you." Kili presses deeper, harder, working at a knot in the muscle. "They'll be glad to have you as king." He's choosing his words carefully, but it's a reminder Fili doesn't need. He sighs, flopping back against Kili's hands in a decidedly undignified way.

"I've told you, I don't—I'd rather they have a home to come back to." He's tired, and it must seep into his voice because Kili stops for a moment, brings one of those talented hands to the back of Fili's neck and plays lightly with the muscles on either side of his throat. "And besides," Fili continues with a happy sigh. "I'd like Mother to be here, if nothing else."

Kili moves back to his shoulders, snaking downwards and working against the awkward angle to start on his middle back. "And it seems wrong to bring her back here when it's still not perfect, I understand." Fili makes an approving sound and smiles. It's his first real smile in what feels like decades "But we should send for her regardless."

His smile fades a bit, falters. He feels like this Erebor, the Erebor that still reeks of dragon and destruction, would break his mother's heart. But he concedes his brother's point. She'd want to be here, and if she knew that it'd been this long and they hadn't sent word she would have tanned their hides, king or not. "I suppose you're right. That should buy some time. It's a long way to Ered Luin."

"If she's not on the road already," Kili says, and Fili can hear the smile in his voice. It's one of the most beautiful sounds he's heard today.

"I'll see who I can send in the morning." Fili sighs again, leans back into Kili's touch. "Mahal you're good with your hands."

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he regrets them. Kili stops moving, presses his body close to Fili's back for a few seconds before removing his hands and pulling away. He brushes through Fili's thick golden hair with his fingers, takes the clasps out of his braids and undoes them, lets his hair fall in a curtain around his face. He brushes all of it together, off Fili's shoulders and out of his face.

"Thorin would be proud of you," is what he says, voice husky. Fili doesn't look around no matter how much he wants to, doesn't let Kili see the flinch that his words bring. Because that's not true, no matter how much Kili would insist it was. Thorin would have things moving by now. Thorin would tell the envoys exactly what was going to happen, wouldn't allow room for argument or acknowledge the fact that they were in a precarious place politically. Thorin would wear the crown already.

But Fili doesn't need the heavy, physical weight on his brow to feel the pressure. He feels the phantom of it just fine, and it leaves him aching and angry.

He's always _angry_ lately. That's usually that's Kili's job, or at least it has been for decades now. Fili's always there to mellow him out, to be calm and collected in the face of his brother's wrath.

They're changing, being molded into new shapes. He misses Kili's smile, his wide, wild laugh. He misses his brother happy, chattering away about everything and nothing, offended to death at the slightest dig against his beard or skill with his bow. This Kili, this brown-and-blue storm cloud, is a pale imitation of what he once was.

Perhaps in time the sting of loss will fade, the responsibility of leadership won't be quite so heavy. Perhaps one day they can be themselves again, FiliandKili, two halves of the same whole. There are too many jagged edges to both of them now; they slant off each other, scraping and bruising, trying to fit but never quite able to manage it.

Dis arrives on a clear, warm spring day. Fili and Kili emerge from the front gates to meet her caravan, all traces of dignity forgotten as they jostle each other, light and laughing. For a moment they are children again. Fili attempts to school his expression into something less gleeful as the caravan reaches them, as he directs them into the mountain and ignores their bowing and scraping.

There is grey threaded through her hair, mimicking her brother's. It wasn't there before they left for the quest, and she looks tired more than anything, face drawn as she leads her pony. When she sees them her face lights up, grin splitting her face. She urges her pony faster and they move forward to meet her. Fili takes her into his arms without preamble and Kili embraces both of them pressing his face into their mother's hair like a child.

They cling to her like they're small again, like she's the only one in the world that can make things better.

Later, they sit by the fireside in their room, Dis resting in Fili's usual chair and her sons sprawled on the furs in front of her. She's brushing through Kili's hair, trying to untangle it and work it into some semblance of respectability. Fili knows as soon as she retires for the night Kili will undo all of her careful work, but it doesn't matter. His brother is squirming, talking easier than he has in a long time.

Fili is watching them, happy to just observe them interacting. They are very much alike, Kili and Dis. When they fight it feels like the mountains will shake down with their combined fury, but they don't fight very often. Thorin was always overpowering when he was angry, an unstoppable force that few were able to stand against. Dis is mostly gentle, but she has a streak of wild fury that Kili matches step for step.

"Sit still!" She hisses at her youngest, his squirming dislodging yet another braid from her talented fingers. She weaves them through and through again expertly, quickly, and despite Kili's constant complaining she manages to get two neat sets of braid to stay in his hair, capping them off before he has a chance to worry at them. "There," she says when she's finish, pulling his head back into her lap, forcing him to look at her. "It won't do to have to running around with your hair loose like a Man."

Kili scoffs at her, rests his head out of her hands. "Mother, they won't stay. You know they won't!"

There's a knock at the door, cutting through Fili's laughter. It fades almost immediately and he stands, brushes off his clothing and assumes a place of authority by the mantle. Dis and Kili watch with identical dark eyes as Fili bids them enter; there is some trouble with the caravan that arrived today, and Fili is needed to sort out where people should sleep. There were residences completed this morning, but they need to be assigned with a fair hand.

He throws on his overcoat and leaves to take care of it.

The door closes behind Fili with a finality that echoes around them. Kili pulls away, shifts to face his mother on the floor. They look at each other for a long moment.

"I'm worried about him," Kili finally says, nodding towards the door.

Dis shifts forward in her chair. "It's not an easy thing, being a king. Less so when you've taken over a kingdom in ruins."

"I wish—"

"I know," she says, cutting him off. Pain passes over her face for a half a second before it's gone again. She reaches out to run a hand down his face. "I wish that too."

He wants to tell her everything, the overwhelming sense of foreboding that's settled over him, the constant worry for his brother, the niggling, sickening sense of want he thought he'd banished a long while ago. He wants to tell her how angry he is at Thorin for leaving this to them, how much he wishes they'd never left home.

Kili feels like an empty shell, full of fury and swirling emotion he can't outlet. He needs to get away from the mountain but Fili can't leave and he can't leave Fili.

"I'm so proud of you," Dis says after a long moment of silence, stroking through his hair. "My brave boy."

"Not me," he says, sounds just as small and lost as he feels. "I've done nothing that merits pride."

Dis makes a small protesting sound. "Stop that. You've done—"

"I think I'm going to get some sleep," Kili stands abruptly, moves back out of the circle of warmth afforded by the fire and reaches for the jug of water on the nightstand. He turns his back, splashes his face and shakes the water off like a dog. By the time he turns again, wet hair dripping, he's alone.

The last time there was a coronation under the mountain was centuries ago. There are nearly none alive now who remember the celebration. Fili's ceremony will be based heavily on tradition because there is nothing else to go on, and it will be remembered not for its grandeur but because he is the first King Under the Mountain since Thror, two generations removed from the last.

Work on the city kicks into overdrive, craftsmen working day and night to provide guests with places to stay and the promised grandeur of Erebor. The malachite walls gleam in the lantern light and the complicated mirror system that channels the shafts of light to the deepest parts of the mountain are repaired. Families have long since been arriving, and the houses of the residential districts are beginning to show personal touches.

Some days it feels like there was never a dragon at all.

Dis pulls Fili into her room one day as he's finishing up a meeting, closing the heavy door behind her to keep even Kili's ears away. "I wanted to wait to give you this, but it seems that necessity has forced my hand." The box she's holding is made of heavy ash wood, carved with intricate ancient runes. Fili watches it warily, already out of sorts from the day's debates.

She pulls the lid off slowly, reverently. Resting inside is the heavy crown of the House of Durin. It still shines, glinting roughly in the low light of the torches around them, and Fili's eyes are riveted to it. For a long moment he says nothing, mouth dropping open, and then, "I thought it was lost when Thror—"

"A great many things were thought lost. I have kept this even from Thorin out of hope we might one day reclaim Erebor. You have delivered us home—" she fixes him with a look to halt his protests – "and so it is yours."

"I… thank you, mother." Fili watches it for long moments, reaches out and runs his fingers along an edge of the heavy metalwork. It's as beautiful as it is deadly. He can already feel the weight of it upon his brow and he hesitates, pulls his hand back. "I will wear it proudly."

Dis puts the box on her desk and pulls him close. "You will do great things, _haban_. So much is expected of you, and you are so young. But you will prosper. You will build the mountain up again and you will rule for years and years."

Fili clutches at her back, hands tangling in her hair, every inch the little boy she remembers. "I'm not him," he says, sounding defeated. "I can't—"

"You can." It's the only thing she can say. It will not assuage his fears. It will not take away the guilt he's feeling, the overwhelming feeling that this isn't _his_. It won't solve anything in the long run, and Dis feels useless for not being able to bring her father or either of her brothers back from the dead, for not being able to inherit herself and save her son this fate.

It is perhaps more important now than ever before to cling to their traditions. Of course, most of the dwarves that have returned to the mountain aren't entirely sure what those traditions are, and Fili himself is getting by on only a vague understanding of his childhood lessons with Balin.

The night before his coronation is spent in preparation. It isn't like he would have been able to sleep anyway, not with the knowledge of what will happen at first light. He has no idea what the ceremony will entail; he descends to the level of the meeting room he was summoned to with shaking hands.

It's horrible not knowing what is required of him. This is something that really should have been discussed before now, so he might have had more time to prepare himself for the tasks ahead. Somehow he knew it wouldn't be as easy as having the crown placed upon his head and saying a few words to seal his place as king.

Balin waits for him within the room, accompanied by a few other older dwarves that Fili didn't know. There is a steaming basin made of some precious, shining metal in the corner and a large wooden table in the center of the room. There is another door on the other side of the room, directly across from the one he'd entered through.

They stand there in silence for a moment, facing each other across the long expanse of the table. Fili steps further into the room, closing the heavy door behind him and taking a seat at the end of the table. He figures this might be what's expected, and he breathes a tiny sigh of relief when the others quickly assume their own seats.

Balin sits on his right, approaches the topic diplomatically. It's the only real way Fili's ever known him to approach a delicate topic, and this is far from the first time Balin's used that tone on him. This alone makes him feel more relaxed, at ease with the situation.

There will be a ritual purification that will be attended by the dwarves surrounding, priests and councilmen. They never set much store by religion in their exile, but now that they've again found their home the old ways are returning. These men have kept their vows even while away from the mountain, and now they are tasked with preparing Fili – an ignorant youth in their eyes, he imagines - to take the mantle of King upon his shoulders.

After he is pure of body, he will approach the sanctuary through the door opposite and spend an undetermined amount of time becoming pure of spirit. When that is done and first light approaches, he will be told about the ceremony the next day, and the priests will leave him to Balin while they prepare the Grand Hall.

He will not be allowed to sleep or eat until these tasks are complete. The grand feast is already in the beginnings of preparation in the halls below, and at the prospect of not eating until this is finished Fili imagines he can almost smell the meat cooking.

When he's been given a few minutes to process this information, he stands, eager to begin the process so it may be completed.

It is many hours later when Fili steps into the ring of fire in the middle of the ceremonial hall. He is mentally and physically exhausted. Regardless of the heaviness of his limbs, his mind is almost serene with clarity. There has never been a time when he wishes for his heavy leathers more than now. He's been stripped down to only clean linens, light and scratchy against his skin. He's at least been given the opportunity to use his own swords, a small blessing; they are extensions of his arms, move with him rather than because of him.

He has a better chance of pulling through this victorious with them.

The dwarf across the ring cuts an impressive figure against the air wavering above the fire. Fili doesn't know him, and there is a possibility that he was chosen specifically for that reason. He's been imagining the way this would play out since Balin told him what would happen, and in his mind it's always been Dwalin standing across from him, wielding his mighty axes.

But Dwalin had a hand in teaching him swordwork. He knows the way Dwalin fights, and it would demean the honor to be found at the conclusion of the fight.

The fact is, Fili will be crowned no matter what happens here. It's more a show of prowess than anything. This is how he gains the respect of his people. They close the ring of fire behind him, heat crawling up his spine as it catches and flares. The other dwarf bows respectfully, and Fili copies the motion, readjusting his grip on his swords.

The fight begins without any clear indication; they're circling each other, backs pressed almost flat to the fire. And then the other dwarf steps into the middle of the circle. Fili watches the way the fire dances in his eyes, already breaking into beads of sweat as the other dwarf lunges at him.

He wields a hammer, impossibly large and heavy. If Fili had known, perhaps he would have chosen his own as his weapon of choice. But with his swords and the swiftness they afford him, he almost has the advantage.

Almost.

Fili dodges sideways, careful not to let the hammer touch him. This is not a contest of killing; the object is not to maim his opponent in any way. To do so would be seen as an act of dishonor rather than what is intended. No, they fight to draw blood. The dwarf who draws first blood will be judged as the more worthy, will have the respect of the people.

Fili dodges another heavy swing of the hammer, wondering if his opponent was given that particular piece of information. Perhaps he's testing.

He's never been as light on his feet as his brother, but he's still lighter than most dwarves. He places himself on the other side of the fire ring, watching the way the other dwarf hefts his hammer, the way he holds it. The placement of his hands is all wrong; at least, it doesn't match what he's been taught, and perhaps that will be his advantage.

He'll never draw blood if he keeps on the defensive.

The other dwarf circles for a moment, and they get back to their earlier form; tracing the inside of the ring, staring each other down. The crowd outside is completely silent, held in thrall by their careful dance. It's far more graceful than any fight Fili's been in recently, and for a moment the phantom of an orc's blade cuts through his side and he twitches, trying not to betray the pain.

Fili starts forward, trying to draw the other into the offensive. His heart is thundering in his ears, adrenaline unlike he's felt since the day he received the wound propelling him onward despite the exhaustion settling in his limbs. He gets the other to take a few tentative steps forward.

Sweat falls down his scalp, itching under his hair as the fire heats the air around them. He lunges with one sword and the dwarf leans out of his reach, swinging his hammer around with a fluidity that doesn't seem like it should belong to someone so large.

And suddenly their graceful dance is broken; the other dwarf parries furious sword thrusts one after another with the shaft on the large hammer; Fili's limbs ache with the exertion but he doesn't let up, pressing his advantage. When he switches paths and tries to bring one sword into the flesh of his opponent's thigh the dwarf stumbles, barely brings his hammer around in time to stop the swing.

Fili snarls, the only sound in the room besides the crackling of the fire and the pounding of their feet on the stone as they run each other across the ring and back again with furious slashes and heavy-handed parries. It seems like ages that they do this, chasing each other forward and back. Fili's arms ache with the jarring force of the hammer landing across the broadest part of his swords. Sweat falls into his eyes, wriggles down his spine; the clean linen he'd been given to wear for the occasion is soaked through with it, darkening the fabric, and tendrils of curling hair stick to his forehead.

This is what he imagines a blade feels like as it's being forged, metal heated and struck until it assumes a more useful shape.

The fight lasts long past when it should have ended; if they were aiming to kill each other it would have been done a long time ago. But this is more delicate and after a while their movements become slow, sluggish, affected by lethargy. Smoke has gathered near the ceiling and pulls back down, clouding the ring and making it more difficult to see his opponent, but he must be in as much pain as Fili is with how he's moving. And of course, his heavier weapon is not helping him.

Fili can feel the strength leaving his muscles as they reach breaking point, as he weakens beyond what his body was created to endure. He gathers what he can find remaining and presses forward one last time, counting on the other warrior's weariness to slow him down further. He is rewarded when the hammer misses a beat, doesn't automatically come up to block his attack. Fili's second sword makes a daringly wide arc, air whistling as the blade cuts through, and the blade lands on the other dwarf's shoulder.

The feel of the blade cutting through skin reverberates up the metal, singing into Fili's palm. He lets out a triumphant sound as the thick red begins oozing out to coat his blade, and he pulls it back before he unintentionally buries it further and ends up hurting his opponent.

There is a roar rising up from beyond the fire ring as the crowd catches sight of the red. Fili drops both of his blades and sags, all strength gone from him, task accomplished.

The dwarf in front of him drops his hammer, bows low and averts his eyes. The fire around them is doused, and one of the councilmen from the night before steps across the cinders and bows before him, raises his arm to the crowd. The roar intensifies, and Fili grins despite himself, trying to catch his breath.

He has proven himself worthy. For the moment, all of his worries are gone.

It might be an hour before the cheers die down for all Fili knows, staring dazed out at the crowd. When it is quiet again, or relatively so, his councilors lead him away. They leave the smoky hall and follow a winding corridor to a small room with a basin of steaming water.

He must clean himself for his presentation as the King Under the Mountain. Right now his limbs don't feel capable of the task, but he tells himself that it's just two more steps, three more steps, and then he can rest. He just has to get through his presentation and the hardest parts are already over.

They don't stay this time, don't watch over him as he purifies himself, and in the brief moment of privacy Fili sits in the scalding water and tries to work his head around what's happening. He has done his family proud in this if nothing else. He doesn't deserve the praise, but right now his resolve is weak and he is tired enough to accept it. The cheers of his people still ring in his ears as he sets about cleaning himself, washing sweat away with the soft cloth they've give him.

When he stands, water sliding down his body, he is immediately attended to. A servant brings him fresh linens and a coarse brush to work his hair back to something manageable, something more regal than the mess it's become through his trial.

He's working his hands through, finding the strands he usually braids together, when his brother finds him. "Kili," he says, tries to keep his exhaustion out of his voice. "Should you be here?"

"Balin sent me," Kili says, eyes roving over Fili's body, checking for signs of injury he knows won't be there. He's still paranoid; Fili can't blame him. If it were his brother in that ring instead of himself, he would have been right there beside him as soon as the flames died. "You need the new braids in your hair."

Fili had almost forgotten about this. In all of the other things that had happened since he last slept, the braids had gotten lost. He hands Kili the brush, bows his head just that small amount more so Kili can see, and submits himself to the fingers pressing along his scalp, massaging. It's those nimble fingers undoing him again, and he's too tired to resist the small sound that wants to escape at the touch.

But Kili ceases his teasing and finds the hair he wants, pulls the braids through quickly and effortlessly. These are special for more than the obvious reason; the design is intricate, but Kili's been practicing them. Fili tries to imagine Kili working them into his own hair, weaving dark strand over dark strand until the braids of kingship rested there, and finds that Kili with any sort of braid is impossible for his mind to achieve.

When he's finished, he admires his work, takes Fili's jaw between his fingers and tilts his head to see properly. Fili reaches up to touch them, run his fingers over the loops and dips. "Thank you, Kili," he says as he touches them reverently.

This moment feels more like a coronation than it will when they place his grandfather's heavy crown on his head.

Kili steps back, claps him on the shoulder suddenly. "You did well. The people will love you for it."

There's a moment when Fili almost slips, in the haze of elation that Kili's words bring. He flushes with pride and glances down at the floor.

"Now," Kili continues without waiting for him. "We have to get you into your new armor so the people can properly greet their King." He's grinning, just a little sadness lingering around his eyes, and Fili wants to wipe it away.

His new armor is made of heavy plate, nothing like what he was expecting. The craftsmen haven't had much time to prepare it, but the plate still shines, is still heavy when Kili lifts it onto his shoulders and does the straps along the sides. The breastplate is engraved with his own personal symbol, gems set heavy at the points of the stylized crown he's always considered his. It's strange how that symbol is so like him but the reality of it suits him far less.

Kili helps him strap it on, complicated and nothing like what he's used to. If this is finery than he'd rather not have it, would rather go back to his dirty leathers and heavy overcoat and leave it at that.

But this is what's required of him, at least today. So he puts it on and wears it proudly, the King Under the Mountain, one of three living members of the line of Durin the Deathless.

He marches out to meet his people, head held high.


End file.
